When anger yokes your throat, set down to write,
How they slighted your mien and coldly spurned …
And on the midnight page, your fury bright,
Will emblazon their eyes, till your wounds have burned.
They weighed mettles with scales that always lie,
And sold your songs for jars of crippled pays,
Yet, may you sail and set your rhymes to fly,
Feeding embers in your purple essays.
For coppers beaten thin will still ignite,
Hammer on until the page is your fire,
Until from its sparks furnaces alight,
To cast your sorrow and gild them in pyre.
Photograph Courtesy: Thomas Hendele, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 